Better
by amostpeculiarmlle
Summary: Emma lied to Henry about his father. Neal stared at a post card for days – but then recycled it. Regina tried to kill the rest of her son's family. What if they'd made different choices? Would things have been ... better? For all of them? AU.
1. Truth

"Can you tell me about him?"

Emma doesn't pick up on the subject change at first, doesn't even look up from her filing because the question seems so innocuous. Just Henry pushing forward on the Operation Cobra front. Probably "Sub-mission: Gingerbread House" or something.

"I don't know anything yet."

"…Not their father. Mine."

Oh. _Oh_. She's completely thrown, and kind of annoyed at herself for being so. Because, really, isn't it more surprising that he _hasn't_ asked until now? Hell, _Regina_ had gone there practically the second Emma walked through her front door.

And if _she'd_ managed to find her mother, wouldn't she also want to know about her dad?

Would she? If she met her mom and the woman was a disappointment, a fuck up, had had her _in jail_ … would she want to know if her dad had been even worse? Or would she want the luxury of believing she had one parent worth looking up to? The luxury of … well, a lie.

No. She hates lies.

She hates lies, she hates being lied to, and she hates the one liar who has ever gotten a big lie past her. Who made her think he loved her. Who sent her to prison. Who fathered her son.

Henry hates being lied to, too. True, Regina actually _isn't_ lying to him, but he's so convinced she is, and it's pretty obvious how the kid feels about that.

So … the truth?

_But he's only ten_, part of her whispers, and she wavers.

Then Henry, who must be reading something into her silence, gives her a look that she can only describe as … brave. Able to take it. The truth.

She takes a breath. Right, then. Quick and clean.

"He was a thief, Henry. A liar, a bad guy, and he … He broke my heart. He was the reason I went to jail..." She has to pause here to get herself under control.

"He was the reason I couldn't keep you."

There's a look on his face for a second that breaks her heart, and convinces her that she made a mistake. But it's gone almost at once, replaced by … maybe not _acceptance_, but the promise to get there. To handle the badness.

It's an expression she knows well and it kills her. She's probably spent half her life with that look on her face and she hates seeing it on her kid's. What was she _thinking_?

"After I'd gotten out of jail, the only job I could get was at this twenty-four hour diner just off of the interstate," she blurts out.

Henry looks up, curious.

"There was this guy training to be a fireman. He always got the worst shifts, so he'd come in and order coffee and pie and sit at the counter. And always complain that we didn't sell pumpkin pie. But he always came back the next night anyway."

Henry's face has left "curious" and moved on to "slightly confused."

"We hung out a few times outside of work and … life happened. And then I found out that he died saving a family from a burning apartment building."

The kid's now obviously completely lost.

"I wish …" she tries to explain. "I wish I could have given you him as a father."

Henry blinks. "A … dead guy?"

Okay, not where she was trying to go with this. "No, a hero. Like in your book," and she nods to the ever-present tome, currently hanging out on one of the sheriff station's desks. "You … you deserve to have someone like that."

And then he tells her he _does_ have someone like that, and gives her a hug, and she has to make some excuse about a breakthrough in the case so she can run out before he sees her tears.

She's glad she told him the truth.


	2. Broken

Larsen casts a resigned look at the backpack, and Neal shoots him one in return that says, _Hey, I came and_ _I wore a suit, okay? Take what you can get._

And Larsen sighs in resignation and then nods his head in dismissal. Neal's free to go.

He loosens the tie the second he's in the elevator, and takes a deep breath the moment he's outside, exhaling three hours of tedium. He hates meetings. Larsen swears that if you do them regularly enough, you develop a tolerance. Your brain numbs to the point where you can just sit there and nod pleasantly at the idiot client for hours until he finally shuts up and signs the contract.

_A sign of adulthood_, Larsen calls it.

"Cassidy, you got to stop living in Neverland!" he'd yelled once, when Neal had first started working for him five years ago. And Neal had just managed to stifle a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob.

They'd reached détente fairly quickly, though. Largely because Neal was very, very good at the job. And because he'd accept far less money than other very, very good people in exchange for largely being left alone.

"I can hack into their system from home in hoodie," he'd explained to Larsen. "And I can build them a better one the same way. Why do I have to hike in here every morning in a suit?"

He'd won in the end, and now human resources lists Neal Cassidy, Data Security Analyst, as having a "flexible working arrangement" with the company. They probably use him as a case study for those work-life surveys, too.

Once in a while, like today, they drag him in to parade him in front of some big deal would-be client. But for the most part, they do leave him alone, which is how he wants it.

It isn't that he doesn't like people. He's always up for a laugh or a joke, and the Starbucks barista, the supermarket checkout clerk, the pizza delivery guy, the bartender down the street … any of his casual acquaintances would be quick to label him a great guy.

And it isn't that he doesn't _want_ real relationships. Far from it. He sees a man with an arm around his girlfriend, or pushing a stroller onto the subway, or just out for a beer with his good buddies – and he feels almost sick with how _much_ he wants to be that guy.

But when you get close to people, they want to know you. Or … maybe not know _you_. (There'd been exactly one person in this world who'd ever really wanted to know _him_.) No, people generally want to know a whole series of facts _about_ you.

Where were you born? Parents still together? Sisters? Brothers? Favorite family vacation spot? Favorite Christmas memory? Favorite childhood memory? Where did you take swimming lessons as a kid? Where did you go to high school? How about college?

In Neal's case, all the answers are made up. And it isn't that he's afraid he'll get caught. He has his stories _down_ – and had spent enough years as a small-time conman to sell them. No, he's just gotten to the point where he can't take continuously lying to people who are being genuine with him.

The sad fact, he thinks as he lets himself into his apartment, is that it's been nearly twelve years since he's had someone who really mattered in his life.

His eyes go to bright yellow dream-catcher automatically. It's near the window, which is how he notices that it's somehow pouring, despite the fact that he was outside _seconds_ ago and there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

But he'd left the window open this morning, so of course it's now raining. And of course the window is stuck. And of course as he attempts to unstick said window his phone slips out of his hand and lands on the fire escape three stories below.

This is how Neal's life works. He's actually reflecting that the only unsurprising part about today is the phone didn't land in the dumpster under the fire escape, forcing him to go diving … when a pigeon lands on the window sill.

And it doesn't flutter inside to look for food or to shit all over Neal and/or his furniture, which is what he half expects.

It just drops off a postcard and takes back off into the rain.

Neal reaches for the card slowly. It's a dull bluish-gray with a red-brown clock tower. Its message – "Greetings From Storybrooke" – appears to have been done in several variations of Word Art. It looks, in short, to be the work of the world's worst tourism bureau.

But, Neal supposes, it's not like they would have actually wanted visitors, let alone been advertising for them.

He gulps as he turns the card over. There's no name, no return address, but, of course, he knows who it's from. The note is rather to-the-point. _Broken_.

He's three beers in before he remembers the phone, and goes after it more for a mental break than for anything else. He's hardly the check-your-e-mail-every-five-minutes type. And Tamara, the woman he's somehow found himself dating recently, is the only person who ever really calls him – and she has his home number, too.

After almost killing himself several times on the slick, rain-soaked fire escape, he and the equally-drenched phone are back in the apartment. The phone gets a paper towel. He gets a real one, another beer, and the left-over slices from last night's pizza delivery.

Then he goes back to staring at the postcard.

So … it's over. Done. Emma's probably off somewhere having a real dinner (he spares a glance at the slightly stale pizza) with her parents. Parents who _love_ her and who have been waiting _twenty-eight years_ to get her back.

That's probably what's happening.

But …

Neal sighs. One of the things he and Emma had had in common, one of the reasons they connected so quickly – and one of the reasons why what he did to her is absolutely unforgiveable – is that they both tended to get screwed. Completely and utterly fucked over by life.

He sends some dark thoughts August's way. Would it have killed the man to elaborate a little? Even an "Emma happy" or "Emma good" would have been sufficient.

Of course, August would have thought that was unnecessary. Because August assumes Neal's planning to charge up to Storybrooke the second he receives the card and throw himself as Emma's feet, sputtering out apology and explanation. And August assumes that Emma will accept all this at once – betrayal, jail time, eleven-plus years separation be damned – and go riding off with Neal into the sunset.

Neal snorts bitterly into his beer. Maybe August _was_ the best suited to get Emma to believe in fairy tales.

So, ex-nay on the puppet's plan. What's Neal's?

Does he even need to do anything? August knows why he left and where he is. August can tell Emma the first part – and then, if she has any interest in seeing Neal, August can tell her where to find him …

Except, no, that's not fair. Neal got screwed, but not as much as Emma did. He didn't spend any time behind bars and he at least knew what he was sacrificing for.

So, no, he can't pull the "ball's in your court" bit here.

Especially because the odds are really good that Emma will get the explanation and check off one big question mark about her life – but also decide she has no interest in ever seeing Neal again. And as August doesn't exactly strike Neal as the thoughtful type, he can't really expect a follow up card telling him all this, but assuring him that Emma's happy.

And that's the biggest thing. All he has is August's word that Emma breaking the curse automatically means getting her family and her happy ending. And after finding out that August was turning to wood, after finding out who he _is_ … well, Neal can't just rely on the man's word. He owes it to Emma to make sure she's happy.

And he owes it to her to do so without coming back into her life, without her knowing he's anywhere around, without forcing her to relive any painful memories.

Right. So he's going to Storybrooke. But quietly. Hopefully in and out within a day. If he sees Emma (he gulps again) it will be from a distance. And she won't see him.


	3. Intent

"I told you once you didn't look like her, but now … Now I can see it."

_But I'm not_, she thinks as she slowly climbs the stairs. _I'm _not. _I didn't become like her._

"If you have to use magic to keep your son, you don't really have him."

She sinks down on Henry's bed. It's still warm from when he sat there, just minutes ago, with her.

"You ruined lives. You sent away Mary Margaret and Emma."

_But that was an accident_. _I didn't _mean _to_.

"The way you treated me wasn't an accident."

Her son's still visible, heading down their street with … his grandfather. His grandfather, who thinks it's appropriate to walk around a small town in _Maine_ with a _sword_. Regina guesses she'd be a fool to hold out any hope for teeth brushing, or vegetables, or appropriate bed times.

Maybe she should have made Henry stay with her. She would have been _better_. He would have seen that.

"So I'm a prisoner because you love me. That's not fair."

She starts to laugh, but it sounds so bitter and so sad that she cuts herself off immediately. Fair? Life's not fair. Nothing about her life, at least, has ever been fair.

"I don't want to be you."

_Well_, she thinks, smoothing a wrinkle out of his duvet, _that makes two of us._


	4. Insurance

Even as he made the decision, Neal had always known there was a chance – maybe even a good chance – that he'd chicken out. That he'd be a coward. That he wouldn't go to Storybrooke.

He'd thought it might be fear that did him in. Or maybe guilt. Or simple shame.

It looks, however, as if the reason is going to be far, far more mundane.

"Yes," he mutters into the receiver, gritting his teeth as he does so. "Yes, I will continue to hold."

He'd let himself push the trip off for a couple days. There had been the preliminary deliverable for that big client. Larsen would probably have had a coronary if it had been late. Tamara had had tickets to that play on Wednesday night and he'd promised two weeks ago to sit through the thing. Mrs. Feeg from downstairs' cat had gotten out and … okay, so it was going to suck, and he'd been pushing the sucking off a bit, all right?

But he'd woken up today, Friday, and found himself flat out of excuses. He'd figured he might as well just do it tomorrow. Power through it. Leave early in the morning, turn right around, be back late Saturday night.

He'd procrastinated a little bit more over coffee, a bagel, and _The Times_ – and then decided he might as well just suck it up and plan the trip.

And that's where the trouble started.

First there'd been the surprising realization - and, really, the only surprising part should have been his actual _surprise_ – that he didn't know where Storybrooke was, other than "in Maine."

Then there'd been this fun corollary: _There was no way for him to find out_.

He couldn't exactly look it up on Google Maps. Wikitravel wasn't going to have a section on enchanted towns. And if he strolled into the local Triple A and requested information on "Cursed Hamlets of New England," he'd probably find himself touring New York's best mental health facilities instead.

In short, within fifteen minutes of starting to plan, Neal had found a terrific excuse to give up. This was no longer about emotional insecurity; it was about logistical impossibility. Against all the odds, the desperate wishes he'd been trying not acknowledge had been answered. Here was the chance to stay the hell away from magic and turmoil and heartache and still be able to look himself in the mirror every morning because he hadn't chickened out - there just hadn't been a way for him to go.

Instead, for some _insane_ reason, he took it as a challenge.

When Tamara called at noon to see about grabbing dinner that night, Neal was standing over a printed-out map of the Pine Tree State, crossing off swathes of the territory based on little comments August had dropped when he stopped in New York several months back. _Not that far off 95. Along the coast. Forested. Nah, I can make it tonight. It's only about four hours outside of Boston._

Three hours before he would have sworn he'd ignored the man's barely-cloaked locational hints. Or, at least, that he hadn't remembered them. Hadn't etched them into his brain.

Yet here he stood with a map that, if it didn't specifically spell out Storybrooke's location, at least narrowed it way down. Things weren't impossible now. It might be a full weekend trip since there were a couple of areas he'd need to check out. But it was doable.

He told Tamara dinner wouldn't work, that he wasn't feeling well. He figured he might as well lay the groundwork for a weekend of under-the-weather unavailability and, really, he just didn't think he could focus on Tamara and the future when he knew he was – briefly – on his way to Emma and the past.

He took a break, grabbed a sandwich from the deli across the street, and headed back upstairs to figure out how to get to – and between – the several Greater Storybrooke possibilities. This was where he ran head-first into major issue number two: he was going to have to drive.

Neal knew _how_ to drive. He'd spent years of his life pretty much _constantly_ driving. He just … didn't drive anymore. It had been almost twelve years now since he'd been behind the wheel. He'd tried for a while, but it just brought back too many painful memories. So he'd come to New York, that magical place where fleets of trains, buses, ferries, and even horse-drawn carriages awaited to serve your every transportation need.

The bigger issue wasn't getting back on the proverbial bicycle. Physical age aside, Neal was centuries old. He didn't forget a skill in a mere dozen years. Give him a car, and he'd have no problem making his way to and around Maine.

But he did need the car. And that's where the problems started.

He'd kept a valid driver's license, of course. You needed some form of ID for everything in this country.

But he didn't have insurance, which the rental companies really kind of wanted. And he didn't have a driving record, or a being-insured record, or the desire to have insurance for any period of time. Or even the ability to wait until the next business day for proof of insurance.

So, by four in the afternoon, Neal is talking to his sixth unimpressed insurance agent and wondering if it is really going to be _car insurance_ of all things that keeps him from Storybrooke. He briefs considers "borrowing" one of his neighbors' vehicles.

Finally, just before five, he strikes an outrageously expensive deal with a cut-rate insurance company that basically offers no protection at all – but will satisfy a rental company and get him legally on the road.

Exhausted, he calls to order Chinese for dinner and then moves on to the actual rental process – which quickly proves to be just as frustrating. It's as if something out there doesn't want him coming to Storybrooke and is using red tape and dropped calls to stop him. This annoys him and, absurdly, makes him even more determined to go.

He doesn't _want_ to do this. He is absolutely dreading doing this. But, dammit, if he gives up, it's going to be because he chickens out – not because Phyllis at Hertz can't transfer his call without disconnecting him!

Finally, finally, Neal reaches someone with a modicum of intelligence – and gets more bad news. If he wants to head off to Maine at the crack of dawn tomorrow, he needs to come get the car tonight.

This means an extra day of fees – plus trying to find parking on a Friday night in Manhattan. Oh, and either paying the rental car company's exorbitant "extra insurance" fees or having to hope that, assuming he _can_ even park the car, no one so much as dings it. On a Friday night in Manhattan. Because there's no way his recently-acquired super-expensive insurance is going cover as much as a paint buff.

He grits his teeth again. Nothing for it, then.

Bowing to the inevitable, Neal stuffs some clothes in a duffel bag and grabs his laptop. He'll leave tonight, crash at some hotel off 95, get some work in tomorrow morning, and then continue on his ex-girlfriend-seeking tour.

When the Chinese food delivery guy rings the buzzer for apartment 407, there's no answer. Neal is standing in a ridiculously long line at Hertz, directly behind a harried woman with five screaming children and an ancient man who's deaf as a doornail – but unwilling to acknowledge that fact. The clerk has been full-out yelling at him for the past fifteen minutes, and he just keeps fiddling with his hearing aid and muttering, "You'll need to speak up, sonny!"

Neal has a migraine-quality headache. His left eyelid is twitching in time to the youngest child's shrieks. And his stomach is starting to make agonized sounds of its own. He smacks his head into his palm and makes a mental note to call Ming's and apologize. Then he goes back to hating whatever Powers That Be that are attempting to subvert his trip via a kindergartner's bat-like shrieks.

Finally, finally the clerk finishes with the lady and her hell-spawn and Neal finds himself facing his latest torment: the unflappably cheerful customer service representative.

"A compact car? Excellent choice, sir, really excellent. What with gas prices these days, and, of course, we all have to do our part for Mother Earth, don't we."

Neal's head is killing him, but he manages a brief nod and smile.

"And where are you going this weekend? Maine? Don't you just love New England at this time of year? Planning to peep at any leaves?"

Neal has never understood this obsession with foliage. He gives the guy a slight shake of the head.

"And I'll just need to see some ID. No way! Turned the big three-five, I see. I'm about to do that myself! Any tips on facing down forty?"

Here Neal just gives up entirely and stares blankly at the clerk. He's completely out of patience – and he doesn't think he could answer that question even if he wanted to. Depending on how you look at things, he either hit thirty-five centuries ago while biologically fourteen and stuck on an island where you couldn't physically age - or he's still four years away from it.

When he'd landed in 1990s America, he'd realized pretty quickly that he was going to have to do a lot more lying than he had the last time he'd visited the Land Without Magic. And almost at quickly, he'd realized that if he was going to make up his birth date regardless, he might as well give himself as many additional years as he pull off. He'd met several Lost Boys who'd came to Neverland via the American foster system. He hadn't been interested in having the experience himself.

Eventually, the clerk gives up on conversation and Neal gets a Civic and hits the road.

Four hours after that, he passes a Holiday Inn just off 95. It's perfect for his purposes – but he keeps going. He tells himself that he's just thrilled to finally be past the congestion around New York and Boston, and able to fly down the highway. As long as he's making such good time, why not keep going?

Ninety-minutes after that, he admits that he's a little tired. His legs are cramping. His butt's asleep. And there are signs for another hotel just off the highway. This is the point to stop for the night.

But he doesn't. He takes the fork for 295 instead. And this is insanity, because he's at the end of his actual known directions now. He's heading toward one of three possible areas that might hold Storybrooke. Areas that he needs to thoroughly canvas sometime that's not two in the morning and pitch black and completely devoid of other people – except that one car that's pulled off 95 behind him.

Twenty miles later, it's still hanging out in his rearview mirror. He takes the exit for Route 1 not because he thinks Storybrooke's that way, but to see if the car will, too.

It does. And it's crazy, crazy to think it's following him. These are major roadways serving Maine. He's tired and stressed and that's all there is to it.

Sixty miles later, the thing is still behind him. Neal tries one random turn, and then another and another and another, just trying to lose it. It stays on him. They are in the middle of nowhere Maine, flying down dark, tree-lined roads and there is just no way that car is doing anything except tailing him.

Neal's completely confused. He's also exhausted and emotional. He loses it. Gives in completely to panic and slams on the gas.

It's pitch black. The road's windy and is thickly bordered by sturdy-looking trees its entire length. This may be the stupidest thing he's ever done.

Well, second stupidest. The stupidest was at a level of dumb he can never hope to match, and, insanely, he takes some measure of comfort in that. And also at the fact that he's pulling ahead of that car. And now farther ahead. And now farther ahead …

He's bidding his stalker a mental adieu in his mirror when his peripheral vision manages to transmit a dire message: Tree. It's big and it's solid, and he's on track to hit it at over 100 miles an hour. His heart jumps, his hands jerk at the wheel, and his foot slams down on the brake.

He's not aware of blacking out, but he is aware of waking up, so he must have. It's sometime later, but not that much later. The sky is just starting to take on that dark-blue-rather-than-black hue it gets before dawn. So … a half-hour? Less?

Enough time, at least, for someone to call the authorities. He can hear the sirens screaming closer.

He groans. He's basically going to have to buy Hertz a brand-new car. He can tell that without even lifting his head to see the damage. And he's going to have to do it out-of-pocket because he stupidly balked at their extra insurance rates and there's no way his actual so-called insurance is ponying up the cash for this.

So, he's out probably about $20,000. That's almost funny, really. He lost twenty grand when he left Emma; he loses it again when he comes back to … well, not _to_ her. But to make sure she's okay.

If his ribs didn't hurt so much, he'd be tempted to laugh.

A squad career marked "Sheriff" comes screeching into view, and he realizes his ribs and the $20,000 are the least of his worries. That was some seriously unsafe driving he just did. He's lucky he didn't hurt anything besides himself and the car. And the tree, he supposes. He could very well be looking at criminal charges. Maybe even jail time.

That, too, would be kind of poetic.

The driver's side door of the squad car is thrown open and a tall, blond Ken-doll-looking guy jumps out and starts running toward him. Two smaller deputies exit the car behind him.

One of them is wearing pajamas.

Neal blinks, and the one deputy resolves itself into the sheriff's kid, who's still rubbing sleep from his eyes. He obviously got pulled out of bed and dragged along when his dad got the 911 call.

Neal's heart twists, and not just because he's interfering with the kid's rest. He knows what it's like to be that age and motherless – and there's no way the kid would be at a crime scene at this time at night if his mom was around. He wonders vaguely if the woman's dead or if she, too, just up and left her son.

At least the boy still has his papa. His papa, who has just all but ripped the Civic's door out of its frame.

_Oh, well_, Neal thinks. _It was totaled anyway_.

"Are you okay?" the man asks urgently, shining a flashlight into Neal's eyes and gently shaking his shoulder. "The ambulance should be here any second."

Neal would really prefer not to go to a hospital. He dislikes paperwork-requiring authorities on principle, even though he now possess everything he needs to satisfy them.

Of course, as he may be bleeding to death internally, it might be a good idea to make an exception in this case.

The sheriff gestures and the actual deputy – the one who is not a child, just a … shorter, grumpy-looking man – steps forward to take the flashlight and shine it on Neal, freeing the sheriff's other hand. The man uses it and its fellow to quickly pat at Neal, checking for injuries.

He seems to pass inspection. The sheriff draws back and asks him if he knows his name.

"Neal Cassidy."

The sheriff and the deputy share a quick, confused look.

"What about your … other name?" asks the shorter man.

Neal blinks. "My … other name?"

The sheriff looks startled for a second and then jerks around to look at the full scene. "My G-… you drove _into_ town!"

_Huh_. Apparently Neal turned the wheel so hard that he did a 180 – and gave the first response team the idea that he was heading _out_ of town.

"Yeah, I did …" he starts, and then notices that the sheriff looks horrified and the deputy looks even _less_ friendly.

_Oh_. Obviously, he was being given more lenient treatment because the local police force thought he was a member of the community. Just some guy on his way home from the late shift – or the town bar. Maybe the father of some kid their kids had class with.

Now that he's a known outsider, though … well, he's probably seconds away from handcuffs.

There was one time in Neal's life when he wanted to go to jail. This is not it.

"Look, I know this is going to sound crazy," he starts, "but this car was chasing me up the road. It had been following me for miles, I have no idea why, I was just trying to get away …"

Luck, for once this day, is with Neal. The gruff deputy barely has time to snort at this story when the kid gives a yell and points into the distance.

A man has just come into view over one of the rises in the road. Neal squints, and hazards a guess at the guy being late thirties, early forties. He's baby-faced, but his hairline's started to recede. He wears jeans and a pea coat and is shouting angrily into a phone practically glued to his ear.

"You told me you were tracking him! You told me you'd know if he made any kind of move! You were our _insurance_!"

The sheriff, deputy, and kid turn to stare at Neal, who shrugs even as he feels his blood freeze.

Why would anyone be tracking him? He hasn't _done_ anything ... at least anything that's still within the statute of limitations. Unless … is his father having him tracked down? Is this some kind of magical bounty hunter trying to deliver him to Rumplestilskin for a cash reward?

Suddenly, jail doesn't sound so bad. This is the Land Without Magic. If Neal confesses to some sort of dangerous driving crime and refuses any kind of defense, he's safe from his father as long as he's behind bars. Rumplestilskin won't be able to do anything about it.

He's trying to think of a way to make what he did sound as horrible as possible. He wishes the man on the phone would go away, as he's not helping Neal's current case by helping his initial one.

Seriously, why is this guy still shouting away like he's the only one around? Surely he's got to have noticed the crashed car, the accident victim sitting half in it, and the three people huddled around him.

The sheriff moves forward, blocking his boy and the rest of the scene from the man on the phone. But it's an unnecessary move. The man doesn't see them. It slowly dawns on Neal that he _can't_ see them.

That's when Neal notices the brilliant line on the ground between the sheriff and the other man. The sheriff is carefully keeping to their side of it. The man can't seem to see anything unusual past it.

_Oh_. Well, then.

He guesses this is his welcome to Storybrooke.


	5. Lost

Despite his insistence that he could at least _walk_ in, Neal arrives at Storybrooke General Hospital on a stretcher dragged by two sprinting paramedics – with the sheriff, deputy, and sheriff's son running alongside him.

The speed of all this starts to scare him – is he dying? – but he tries not to show it because he doesn't want to frighten the little boy. And because neither the sheriff nor the deputy seem to be the kind of men who ever show fear, or respect those who do, and Neal doesn't want to be a traitor to Team Masculinity.

So all in all, he's a little annoyed when the doctor spends more time checking out the nurse than _him_.

Apparently he doesn't hide _this_ emotion quite so well, because the sheriff catches his eye and then quickly turns a snort into a cough.

"Sorry," the lawman smiles after the doctor has left the room. "Dr. Whale's a bit of a Casanova."

"But not _actually_ Casanova, right?" Neal asks because he doesn't believe being history's most famous womanizer qualifies the man to assess whether Neal's bones are still intact.

And then he sees the sheriff's face and curses himself. If it wasn't for the fear and the lack of sleep and all the stress of knowing Emma is around here somewhere…

He briefly considers trying to play it off as a joke, but decides _any_ stranger in this town is going to be a source of curiosity and gossip. Telling the truth, or a version of it, isn't going to draw any more attention to him or heighten the risk of Emma finding out he's in town. If anything, it might lessen it. Anyone who's talking will know he's not a danger – which would have made them spread the story faster.

Okay, then. The sheriff is clearly looking for an explanation. What tale should he spin?

Well, the best lies do contain as much truth as possible…

"Do you know August Booth?"

The sheriff nods slowly.

"He's a … friend of mine." That's not the truth, but characterizing the relationship as _he ruined my life_ would definitely lead to questions. "He told me about Storybrooke and the curse, and he … invited me to visit after it broke."

The sheriff doesn't trust him. He silently congratulates the man for his good instincts. "He told you Storybrooke was … _cursed_?"

Well, Neal thinks, he can't exactly half-ass it at this point. "Yeah. He said a bunch of fairytale characters had been brought here by a curse and were … kind of frozen in time without their memories."

The sheriff has gone a little pale.

"And that …" actually, he wants to leave Emma out of this, "that the curse was going to break soon, and everyone would remember who they were."

"And you … believed this?" the sheriff asks, doing a credible impression of lawman-about-to-call-white-coats.

Yeah, Neal guesses your average thirty-something American male would have laughed his head off at this story, not set off to Maine to check it out.

So it's going to have to be even more of the truth, then.

"I'm not from this world either," he says baldly.

And the sheriff has definitely blanched. "You're … from _our_ …?"

Neal shakes his head emphatically. He's not doing _that_ much of the truth. His father is in this town somewhere and he does _not_ want word getting out that another Enchanted Forest escapee has randomly arrived in town.

"I guess I should have said I'm not _just_ from this world," he clarifies. "I left this world as a child, and went to another one. And then I came back."

All this is technically true.

"Which other world?" the sheriff asks.

_Damn_. Neal was hoping he wouldn't have to bring it up, because there's always the chance Rumplestilskin knows. But _he_ doesn't know enough about other worlds to credibly fake it if it turns out this man – or anyone else he runs into – has done any … traveling … of their own.

"Neverland," he whispers.

"Second star to the right?" the sheriff asks with a smile.

And now it's Neal's turn to whiten. "How do you know that?"

The man's smile falters at Neal's tone. "It's in _Peter Pan_. I read it as a child. Or," he pauses and shakes his head. "I guess I have fake memories of reading it as a child. Good book."

"The reality's a little different," Neal says grimly.

Emma examines a piece of … chimera … that she's holding aloft with something that almost wants to be serving tongs.

She's been sucked down a _hat_ with her roommate-slash-_mother_ to freakin' Fairytale land, captured by some Chinese warrior and a snot-faced princess brat, tethered to a horse and marched days across a dessert, and dropped down a hole for a chat with _Regina's mom_.

And now she's sitting at a weathered wooden table while Mary Margaret catches up with _Lancelot_ in a discussion that seems to center on _ogres_.

"As in fee fi fo fum?" Emma asks in disbelief.

"Those would be giants," Mary Margaret says, patting her arm kindly.

And this is hands down the weirdest part of … all this. The woman who was her sweet little mouse of a friend yesterday is suddenly trying to protect her, rebuke her, coddle her and just generally treat her like … a child.

Something cow-like brays in the distance. Two women walk past, struggling with a purple, writhing plant.

Emma feels so lost.

The curse has been broken for a week. Regina feels like she's lived three lives in that time.

There was the first, where she'd lost her son, the entire town wanted to kill her, and she was powerless to stop any of it.

There was the second, where she had her magic, her son, and everyone's fear.

And then there's this one, which is kind of … both.

No one attacks her, but it's because they know she has magic, and they _don't_ know she's promised her son not to use it.

No one speaks to her either, and she can tell that this time it's from a combination of fear and loathing.

Henry's still with David. He hasn't called in the two days since he left her home. Probably too focused on finding his _other_ mother.

And she is grocery shopping at the crack of dawn, as the store first opens and she won't have to run into any other customers – and watch them quickly turn away.

She wants to walk into Granny's and just order a plate of pancakes. But she knows she can't.

She wants to go home and just conjure up some pancakes. But she knows she can't.

Instead, she drops a box of Bisquick into her basket and then tries to locate the dairy section.

Regina feels so lost.

Neal rolls slowly out of bed around two in the afternoon, moving carefully to avoid jostling his ribs. They are broken, according to Dr. Whale, who eventually tore his eyes away from his nurse's ass long enough to read Neal's X-rays.

What's also broken is most of Neal's rental car. It's been towed to a local garage, Tillman's, where the sheriff assures him it can actually be _fixed_ – although it will take about two weeks.

He's torn about this. One the one hand, Tillman can apparently make the car look and work like new for only a couple thousand. (Neal jokingly asked if the man was a magician, and then realized this was an actual possibility.)

On the other hand, this leaves him stuck in Emma's town for two weeks, which greatly increases the chances he'll run into her.

On the _other_ other hand, the town seems much bigger than he thought, and the townspeople seem to be very wrapped up in dealing with suddenly being other people. Or having been other people. He doesn't know how best to characterize it, but he can certainly understand how it would be a little consuming.

In any event, once the sheriff and the grumpy deputy assured the eagle-eyed diner/inn owner (and her earliest customers) that he wasn't a government spy or tabloid reporter, she'd been perfectly happy to give him breakfast and a room and otherwise leave him alone.

All this gives him hope that the rest of the Storybrookians might do likewise, given their considerable preoccupations. And that Emma Swan, wherever in this town she might be, will not hear that Neal Cassidy has checked in to Granny's Bed and Breakfast for a two-week stay.

Plus, his ribs hurt like hell, and he just isn't up for an eight-hour drive home. Or dealing with Pea Coat Man who he imagines as just outside Storybrooke, stalking the town's perimeter in search of him – for God knows what reason.

So Neal resigns himself to his stay and sidles over to Granny's Diner – casting surreptitious looks around for a be-spectacled blond as he does so – for coffee, lunch, and any information Granny has on August Booth.

Forty-five minutes later, he heads back out, having achieved two of the three. He's full, he's caffeinated, and he has directions to Gepetto's home – because no one has seen or heard from August since the curse broke.

This has Neal totally stumped as August so desperately wanted the curse broken. What's stopped the man from racing to reunite with his family and friends?

Neal's considering magical termites, and giving the idea such thought that he doesn't pay attention to where he's walking – and nearly ploughs over a neatly dressed older man.

He's gets as far as righting the man and apologizing profusely before he realizes he's talking to his father.

The limp's still there, as is the cane. The glittery skin – thank God – is gone. The man might actually be his papa instead of the Dark One, if it weren't for the thousand dollar suit and the impatient manner with which he shrugs off Neal's help and apologies and heads across the street into a shop labeled "Mr. Gold Pawnbroker & Antiques Dealer."

Completely shaken, Neal heads off in a random direction, telling himself he's looking for Gepetto's home even though he's no longer paying any attention to the directions on the napkin in his hand.

Ten minutes later, he feels like he's fled far enough from the scene to stop moving and start calming down. He leans against a white picket fence, takes a couple deep breaths, and starts taking in his surroundings.

He's on a quiet, residential street full of single family homes – and an old warehouse, which appears to have been subdivided into apartments.

A school bus pulls up and several children depart, running this way and that towards parents who appear out of nowhere and start casting nervous looks at this unknown man lounging against the fence.

Neal slowly realizes that he's completely lost. He also realizes that he's doing a great impression of a pedophile. He can only thank God that he didn't try to ask one of the kids for directions.

He's decided to just start walking purposely in any direction - in the hope that he'll soon meet an adult who doesn't think he stalks children and who will therefore give him directions – when the door to the warehouse apartments opens and a kid comes out.

He's yawning a little and is short the uniform all the other kids are wearing, even though he's definitely school-aged – and is toting a pretty stuffed-looking backpack. It takes a second, but Neal recognizes him as the sheriff's kid, who probably – Neal feels another pang of guilt - ended up missing school today after being up all night.

The kid recognizes him a second later and waves. "Hi, Mr. Cassidy! How are you feeling?"

Out of his peripheral vision, Neal can see parents relax on either side of the street and start shuffling their children back into the routines of life. If the sheriff's kid knows him, Neal supposes they must think he's okay.

"What are you up to?" the kid asks, bobbing up to him. "Just out for a walk?"

"Something like that," Neal says, smiling at his pint-size rescuer. "What about you? The same?"

"Granny's," the kid yawns again. "I'm hungry and David's at work."

Neal's a little thrown by the kid using his dad's first name, but supposes these are modern times. Besides, the more important thing is that the kid is heading to Granny's, the point from which Neal's directions to Gepetto's will again work.

"I'm heading back that way myself," he says. "And I probably owe you lunch – or dinner, maybe? I think I'm the reason you missed school."

The kid shrugs, his little shoulders barely lifting his backpack. Seriously, what is in that thing – especially if the kid didn't even go to class?

"There's not really a point in going now. Everything's a mess with all the teachers realizing they're not actually teachers," the kid pauses to shift his backpack, and then heads off, nodding to Neal to follow. "And then it turned out the janitor was a troll. _That_ was a mess."

From what he knows of trolls, there are several ways Neal could take that comment. He feels like the kid would have mentioned if one of his classmates had been eaten, though. So it's not the worst-case scenario at least.

"And then everyone has their memories back," the kid continues. "So they know they've been doing the same year over and over again. So it's this big thing. Do we just continue with the year we're in and make everyone do, like, the same math problems _again_? Do we move everyone up a grade and start the school year later?"

Neal tries not to laugh at the local governance issues a broken curse apparently creates.

"Well, it's only mid-September," he reasons. "You could start a new school year now and then just end a couple weeks later. And then by next year everything would be back on track."

The kid looks at him in abject horror. "But … _summer vacation_."

This time Neal does laugh out loud.

"Sorry," he says to the kid, who's looking a little affronted.

"Didn't you ever go to school here?" the kid asks, apparently curious about his lack of regard for summer vacation. "Or were you in that other land all the time?"

Apparently, Neal thinks, the kid stayed awake long enough to pump his dad for information.

"No, I never went to school here," he says softly. And then, to change the subject and also because at this point he needs something else to mentally call the kid. "Hey, I don't know your name."

"Oh," the kid adjusts the backpack again. "I'm Henry."

"It's nice to meet you, Henry," Neal smiles.

"You, too," says Henry. "Was the other land the Enchanted Forest?"

Neal sighs. So much for changing the subject. "No." _And please leave it at that_, he thinks.

"Oh," Henry says sadly. Then, "My mom's over there. I thought maybe … if _you'd_ gotten _here_ …"

Neal stops walking so quickly he almost falls over. "Your mom ... never came over?"

What kind of monster would separate a family that way, he wonders. Oh course, you'd have to be pretty monstrous to cast the curse in the first place. You'd have to want to take away everyone's happy ending. But to strand a mother in a different realm from her child …

The kid's talking. Apparently, it's something totally different.

"And so my mom was trying to help. And then she got pulled through this portal with _her_ mom …"

Oh. Neal can sympathize with unwanted portal-ing

The kid looks down suddenly and then rubs the heel of his hand quickly at each eye. Neal pretends not to notice because he's obviously not supposed to – but he feels the sudden urge to wipe at his eyes as well. That poor kid. His poor mother.

"She'll find a way back to me," Henry says suddenly, fiercely. "She _will_."

"Of course she will," Neal says softly, and surprises himself by rubbing the kid's hunched back.

They're right in front of Granny's. "C'mon kid. Let me buy you a sandwich or a hot chocolate or something."


End file.
